As a journalist at a community newspaper, you get the opportunity to interact with several people in the community.
I’m sure a seasoned reporter could write a book about their experiences throughout their career. As for me, I have a handful of really entertaining stories that I could share. However, one sticks out more than the others.
In 2015, I was a reporter for the Mount Forest Confederate. Our office in downtown Mount Forest was a busy spot, often frequented by residents who wanted to share news tips.
One such day I was sitting in my office when an older gentleman stopped in wanting to talk about an issue he was having with his neighbour and the town. We’ll call him Mr. Stick Man.
You’ll also understand the name later.
Mr. Stick Man sat in my office and told me his story.
The issue was with his neighbour to the east, whom Mr. Stick Man said had directed their rainwater onto the property.
“How so?” I asked.
“They’ve got all their downspouts from the eaves pointed at my property, with big ‘o’ pipe from the bottom of the downspout running onto my property,” he replied.
He then produced a stick – a twisted, knotty branch about an inch in diameter and roughly 20 inches long.
See why I call him Mr. Stick Man?
Mr. Stick Man handed me the stick as if it were an official, legally binding measuring device.
“It’s this far over my property line! And I know where my property line is because the stakes are easy to locate,” he said.
Having some familiarity with bylaws, I knew the neighbour was in the wrong.
“Have you talked to the neighbour?” I asked.
Mr. Stick Man said he has on multiple occasions, and the neighbour would move the big ‘o’ pipe. However, the next day, the big ‘o’ pipe was over the property line.
I suggested he talk to the bylaw enforcement folks at the Township of Wellington North. He had already done that.
“They don’t see the issue,” he claimed.
Thinking this was odd, I once again looked at the stick. Seeing the confusion on my face, Mrs. Stick Man suggested I hop in their car and take a drive over to the property.
So I did.
When we pulled up to the property, I was stunned.
It was an empty lot with grass about a foot high.
We got out of the car, and Mr. Stick Man walked with purpose toward the easterly boundary of the property.
He motioned for me to follow. I walked over to find a string that marked the property line. Sure enough, there was the big ‘o’ pipe from the neighbour’s downspout about one stick over the property line.
“They’re draining their water onto my property,” Mr. Stick Man said.
“They are,” I replied. “But what harm is it doing? It’s an empty lot.”
Mr. Stick Man told me all of the harmful things this would allegedly do to his property, all of which were so minor that I can’t recall them seven years later.
“One day, I am going to give this property to my kids and they can build a house on it,” he said. “But this land will be useless if they keep draining their rainwater onto it.”
I took some photos at Mr. Stick Man’s request, and they dropped me off at the office.
“I look forward to reading your story,” he said. And then he handed me the stick.
Not wanting to offend him, I took the stick and walked inside.
Afterwards, I reached out to the township about this issue, and surprisingly I got a response. I don’t recall the exact quote, but it was essentially, “We have met with Mr. Stick Man, and no further action will be taken.”
After discussing with my editor, we concluded that this story wasn’t a story. The story I had crafted would not see the light of day.
A few weeks later, Mr. Stick Man called me and asked why his story wasn’t published. I told him my reasoning; it was a dispute between him, his neighbour and the town.
“We won’t be publishing the story,” I said.
Mr. Stick Man told me how disappointed he was and that he was cancelling his subscription to the Confederate.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. Then Mr. Stick Man hung up.
Fast forward a few months, and the owners of the Confederate had decided to close the Mount Forest and centralize the area’s operations out of Listowel. As we finished packing up the office, one of my co-workers found Stick Man’s stick and asked if I was bringing it with me.
“No,” I said. “That memory can stay here.”
When we moved into the Listowel office a few days later, I arrived to find my belongings – and the stick – on my desk.
“What’s with the stick?” asked one of my new office mates.
“It’s a long story,” I said.
Since that day in December 2015, the stick has disappeared. I have no idea what happened to the stick, but part of me wishes I still had it.
The stick may be gone, but the legendary tale of Mr. Stick Man lives on.
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Mike Wilson is the editor of Midwestern Newspapers. Comment and feedback is welcome at mwilson@midwesternnewspapers.com.
